Remington Marie Spayberry was not anything like me as a little girl. Or any other little girl I'd ever met in my life, which, albeit, was mostly other actresses. She loved hunting and fishing. And ATVing. She didn't mind snakes or spiders or bugs. She loved building traps and walls and pits. She loved mud. But the weirdest? She doesn't like food.
I just didn't get that.
I really wasn't sure what I was going to do with Remi. On my own. For an indeterminate amount of time. On New Year's Eve. I'd hoped my Southern gentleman would consider it a major date night, instead of spending the evening serving subpoenas then dropping me off at my father's cabin (which we'd done almost every night this holiday season). Although on New Year's Eve, we'd really have the element of a subpoena surprise.
What was I even thinking?
"Of course. I'll take care of Remi," I told Daddy.
"She's a pistol." He stroked his almost-more-Santa-white-than-ginger beard. "But you know that."
I nodded. Boy, did I know.
"The dogs'll mind her, so don't worry about them. Just keep her busy and she'll be fine."
Then he fled. To be honest, I think my six-foot-three, Paul Bunyan-ish father was a little scared of his spindly, six-year-old daughter. I was, too. Without an idea of how to entertain a six-year-old who was intent on taking out the Abominable Snow Monster with her bare hands, I took her with me to the office.
Where I found Nash with another woman.
Two
#Maltease
After buying Remi (and myself) a donut (or two) at the Dixie Kreme shop above which Nash Security Solutions was housed, I led her up the creaking wooden steps to the second floor and entered the dingy office. Dingy because it was in a historic building that let in more dirt than light. And because the Dixie Kreme building was owned by Lamar, whose idea of an update consisted of a fresh coat of paint every twenty years. Also because the office was run by Nash who regularly announced how much he hated change, which I guess meant keeping the dust.
I ushered Remi through the old-timey glass entry door, and she ran into the front room, spinning between the dented file cabinets, a lumpy couch, and Lamar's faded corduroy La-Z-Boy. "I can't believe I'm finally here," she exclaimed, like she'd just passed through the gates of Disney World.
Spotting the closed inner office door, I moved past her and knocked. "Are you decent, Nash?" He slept in the office due to the ruinous state in which his divorce left his finances. I'd caught him a time or two in various states of dressing.
Not so bad for me, but today I had Remi to consider.
"Of course." His deep baritone had an odd lilt to it. Like he was trying to chuckle as he talked. Which was unnatural. Nash was many things but not a chuckler.
I opened the door. A beautiful woman wearing snug, winter white cashmere and bright red lipstick sat in the chair opposite his desk. She had alabaster skin and auburn hair like I did. As did Nash's ex-wife, Jolene. And the tattoo of Jessica Rabbit on his back. Yep, Nash had a type and this woman fit the bill.
Naturally, I was suspicious.
Mostly due to my insecurities, of which there were many. My favorite ex-therapist, Renata, would have told me to focus on positive affirmations. I don't know what my new ex-therapist would say since he was currently in jail. Hopefully, he'd tell me how to stay out of jail, which would mean reining in my hot mess of feelings.
My mentor and sort-of boyfriend sat on the edge of the desk, facing this woman. He appeared more excited than guilty, which for Nash meant a brightening in his normally hooded eyes and a speedier pace to his drawl. This signified a new case.
"Meet Ms. Wonderly," said Nash, waving his hand toward the woman. "She has a job for us. One I think you'll find real interesting."
Ms. Wonderly turned halfway in her chair and smiled beatifically. Her movement was smooth. Her chin raised and back straight. Quite the contortionist feat as her body still faced Nash. Her eyes skimmed over me then snapped forward once again, like a ballerina pirouetting.
I quirked an eyebrow, feeling my inner Julia Pinkerton kick in. Her character often comes to me in these situations. Partly because I played the teen detective for many years and partly because Julia was a lot cooler and more confident than me. "Ms. Wonderly? You're kidding."
"I assure you, I'm not," she said.
I circled her chair to sit on the other side of the desk, mirroring Nash. "I guess you're looking for a Maltese falcon?"
Her eyebrows quivered, and she shot me a questioning look. "No."
"Then you're looking for your sister. You suspect her boyfriend might have done her wrong. Except the sister isn't real. Because you're really hunting for the Maltese Falcon."
Ms. Wonderly looked from me to Nash. Nash nodded his head. She gave him a coy smile.
"I already went over this, Miss Albright. Ms. Wonderly's not familiar with the movie or the book. The name seems to be a coincidence."
"Oh, sorry. I love old movies." This was what I got for immediately going noir on her.
"Ms. Wonderly's had a hard time of it this holiday," continued Nash. "She was just telling me about her ogre of a boss. And she just lost her boyfriend."
"He died?"
She shook her head and sniffled, dabbing her eyes from a handkerchief she'd swiftly pulled from her bag. "He broke up with me on. On Christmas Eve."
"Pretty jackassy," I said. "Sorry to hear it." Particularly because it meant she was single.
Rein it in, Maizie.
"It's an easy gig." Nash's voice had that excited edge to it again. "And they chose us because of you. She was sent here by her boss."
"What?" My cheeks sizzled from embarrassment. Now I really felt bad for judging Ms. Wonderly. "Someone heard about my work in investigations and was actually impressed?"
"Not exactly." Nash cleared his throat. "It's your previous employment that attracted their attention."
"Oh." My elation crashed. My previous employment attracted a lot of attention. Usually in a not so positive way. But negative attention also works when you're trying to stay in the media limelight. With the help of our PR advisor, Vicki spun my failures and humiliations to “our” advantage. (Mostly her advantage since she was rich and I was broke after legal fees and college tuition.)
"What do they want?" I folded my arms over my chest. "An autograph in exchange for the job?"
"Nothing like that." Nash cleared his throat and tried on a smile. Which didn't fool me because I knew his real smile. His real smile could melt the polar ice caps. This smile was weird. And disturbing. Like he didn't know how to make himself fake smile, which for me, was as natural as real smiling. But I'd had a lot of practice. "You were in this movie, Warhead Girl."
"Oh no." I shook my head. "I am not posing in that outfit again. A bandolier of bullets and not much else? Forget it.”
"Really?" Nash cocked his head, seeming to contemplate me in a bandolier and not much else.
"It's not the bandolier we're interested in," said Ms. Wonderly.
"That's a relief. I don't think I could fit into that costume, even if I wanted to wear it." I looked at Nash. "Which I don't. Ever."
A crash from the waiting room snapped me out of it. "Remi."
I hopped from the edge of the desk and ran around Ms. Wonderly, who did that weird snap of her head while keeping her body facing forward. She didn't fidget the whole time she sat there.
Who didn't fidget?
But my concerns about Ms. Wonderly's unusual poise fled. The coffee table was on its side and Remi upside down against it.
"Are you okay? What were you doing?" I patted her, seeking broken bones.
Remi shoved my hand away and sprung to her feet. "That chair is awesome. If you balance against the footrest and pull the handle, it'll shoot you right into the air. I almost made it onto the couch."
"That's Lamar's special chair. If you break it, he'll probably cry. Or make me buy a new one."
"Sorry." She didn't look very sorry. She was staring past me, watchi
ng Ms. Wonderly sashay from the office.
"Thank you, Mr. Nash. You've been so helpful." Ms. Wonderly clung to the hand he offered to shake. "Why don't you text me?"
"I'd be glad to, Ms. Wonderly." Inclining his head, Nash opened the office door for her. His eyes lingered on her stroll through the door and he closed it behind her. Whistling, he ruffled Remi's hair, then flipped the coffee table upright. Probably unperturbed by the idea that she'd almost destroyed two pieces of furniture. "How're you doing, kid?" he said to Remi.
"I have a new slingshot." She gazed at him with that sort of rapturous wonder saved for unicorns and boy bands.
"Santa knows his stuff. Look what I got." He strode to the file cabinet and grabbed a dark brown, wool felt fedora. Tucking it on his head, he tugged the brim and gave Remi his real smile.
I gazed at him with rapturous wonder. The hat was trés retro hot. The smile, even hotter.
The gunshot-like creak sounding from a footfall on the outside stair snapped me out of my euphoria. "What did Ms. Wonderly want with Warhead Girl?"
"There's some kind of necklace-thingy related to the movie." Nash's gaze skidded off my face and landed somewhere to the side of my head. "Just some movie junk they think you can help them locate."
I knew exactly what he was talking about. The death necklace.
"I better get Remi home." I grabbed Remi's hand and pulled her toward the door.
"Wait." Nash slipped in front of the door and placed a hand on my shoulder, skidding it toward my neck. He glanced at Remi and patted my shoulder. "It's worth a lot of money to her boss."
I shrugged off his hand and opened the door. "We need to go."
The stair creaked again. Before I could slip out, Nash moved to block me again.
"It's got a leather band with about twenty deer rifle cartridge shells hanging from it." Nash formed the shape with his hands. "You know the one I mean?"
"Yeah, I know it," I muttered. Moving around him, I glanced over the banister. Someone stood in the shadows between the donut shop and outside doors.
"It's a worthless piece of junk that anyone can make, but for some reason they want the original," said Nash. "Are you going to give it to her?"
"I don't know where it is," I let my voice carry over the bannister.
"Yes, you do," said Remi. "It's hang—"
"It's New Year's Eve,” my voice rose over Remi's. “Remi and I are going to curl up by the fire. Do you want to join us for the countdown tonight? It'll be cozy."
Taking my hand, Nash led me from the banister. He gazed at me intently. Earnestly. Eagerly. "It could help get us out of debt. It would be on the books for our office, not Vicki's."
My heart twisted at the word "our." I wanted it to be our office. Nash hated working for Vicki even more than I did. Plus the word "our" always did a whammy on my heart. But I shook my head and pulled Remi out into the hall.
"See you later, Mr. Nash.”
Below us, a door shut quietly.
Three
#Unfanbelievable
Warhead Girl had been filmed by a small studio, funded by foreign producers for a mostly international audience. Another career pivot role, chosen by my manager who tried to transition me from teen idol to adult star. The movie had lots of action and, like my wardrobe, not much else. Something my manager forgot to tell me.
Conveniently.
I’d sent Daddy the reviewers' cut DVD since he enjoyed action movies. Then given him the death necklace because he'd been fascinated with the director's choice of .444 Marlin cartridges. It was a way to stay connected to him during a difficult part of my career—and during those difficult years between teen and real adulthood.
"The .444 Marlin was introduced in 1964," Daddy had said when I'd presented the necklace. "Your Grandpa Spayberry had one. Cooler than custard back in the day. Pushed a 240-grain bullet to a muzzle velocity of 2,350 feet-per-second.”
Which…whatever. But my middle name was Marlin, named after his favorite rifle at the time (written on the hospital birth certificate while my mother was hopped up on pain pills). That necklace remained special to him and me. When you were separated by a country due to your parents' divorce (and mother's insistence that we live in LA for my career), fathers and daughters bonded over what they could.
Every Christmas that necklace hung on Daddy's tree along with all his other hunting decorations, which naturally, he collected as the CEO and founder of DeerNose apparel company. (The apparel's specialty scent appealed to deer and hunters alike.) (For different reasons.)
An hour after leaving the office, I stood before the tree, studying the death necklace, when our gate alarm chimed.
Remi skidded into the large foyer, sliding on the granite in her tiny cowboy boots. "It's Mr. Nash. I buzzed him in." She climbed onto the hearth of the stone, double-sided fireplace that stood between the foyer and the living room. "You said we'd get cozy by the fire."
I rested my hands on my hips. "I hid the remote."
She stuck her hand in the bin holding the andirons and pulled out a small black box. "Found it." Pressing a button on the remote, a whump and click announced the gas igniting. Flames licked stacked logs in the grate.
"You pyromaniac," I yelled. "You're six. You can't start a fire."
She cocked her head. "But I just did."
"I meant, you shouldn't start fires." I coughed and ran to the fireplace, lifting her down. "And you forgot to open the flue."
She dashed away, and I heard her fumble with the door. The air frosted. I shivered inside the long shadow that fell past me. I pulled the lever for the flue and turned to face Nash. He stood in the doorway, with his fedora tugged down and the collar on his bomber jacket flipped up against the cold. Frigid air gusted past him and he stepped inside to shut the door.
"Hello, Miss Albright."
"Mr. Nash." Remi hopped up and down. "I made a fire."
He glanced down at her and ruffled her hair. "Good job, kid."
I pressed my lips into a hard line, then blew air out of my nose. "Remi, go fix a plate of cookies or something. I think Mr. Nash's here to talk about business, not celebrate New Year's Eve."
* * *
I purposefully ushered Nash past the Christmas tree and through the French doors on the other side of the fireplace that led to the living room. Carol Lynn had placed Remi's tree in here. I didn't have a tree yet, because I didn't have ornaments. Vicki had always hired a decorator for our holidays. This year, Remi had eschewed her baby ornaments for her My Little Pony collection. Carol Lynn had added popcorn and cranberry strings to disguise the fact they hung from tiny nooses by their little necks.
Nash jerked to a halt in the middle of the room, squinted at the tree in the corner, and shook his head.
''You know where the necklace is. Does the studio still own it?" Nash took my hand, so I had to turn to face him. "Or do you? Why won't you give it to the client? This could do us a lot of good."
I dropped his hand. "I don't like to help collectors. If they find it on their own, it's their business, but I think people get a little too weird about movie props. They place all this symbolic importance on a piece of fiction. Speaking of Ms. Wonderly, the Maltese Falcon prop sold for more than four million."
Nash took a step back. "Four million dollars?"
"I mean, it's a free market, but as an actor it makes me feel kind of…icky."
"Icky?"
"I mean, it's all make-believe, right? But some fans get a little wrapped up in a world Hollywood created for entertainment value. The film business is a billion-dollar industry. And it feels kind of…exploitative or something."
"Do you feel exploited?" Nash ran a hand up my arm. "Or felt exploited?"
I shrugged. "As an actor, you know that it’s part of the deal. You have to use every advantage you can to leverage your fame to get better and more roles. It's not that you mind being associated with a character. But some fans get a little nutty and forget that it's acting. And in a film like Warhead G
irl? My character is a vigilante who blows up and kills as many people as possible. Bad guys, but still. I don't like the idea of someone using that necklace as some sort of symbol for…I don't know what. But it wouldn't be for hope, peace, and love."
I squeezed my eyebrows together. "At least, I wouldn't think so."
"I get it." The hand Nash had laid on my shoulder ran down my side and landed on my hip. He tugged me closer.
"Thank you." I wiggled until we were pressed together. I circled my arms around his shoulders. Gazing up into his cool blues, I felt my anxiety dissipate. "I knew you would understand."
The hands on my hips slid to my lower back. He angled his head so that his lips were within an inch of mine. "I'll take care of this. I wouldn't want you to be involved in something like that."
I brushed my lips against his, reveling in his solidity and the scent that was partially Acqua di Selva aftershave and mostly Nash.
He responded, then pulled back. "Do you have the necklace?" His lips brushed mine again. "Just curious."
My brain was too busy enjoying the current physical sensations to answer. A hand caressed my back. His lips had moved to my throat. The other hand had moved to my nape. Fingers pushed into my hair. I knocked his hat off, ran my hand over his muscular neck, and pulled him closer.
"Maizie?" said Nash, his lips moving steadily down my neck. "The necklace is here?"
"Mmm." Remi had put Christmas music on the house speaker system. Mariah Carey hit a high note, and I felt a crescendo of pleasure as Nash's firm body fit against mine. His lips and scent and hands created an electric heat that combined with a blast of cold.
Until it just felt cold. Really cold.
Shivering, I pulled away to figure out where the icy blast came from. In a Disney princess dress and cowboy boots, Remi stood before the open patio door. Snow blew in around her feet. Six hundred barking Jack Russell terriers — or maybe just six — hurtled through the doorway.
Crimes Most Merry and Albright Page 15